Margaret

Friday Night – The Best of Nights

After school, I wander along the train tracks, navigating the uneven rocks beneath my feet. My steps lack direction, mirroring the chaos within. Home or Margaret's place? Uncertain. It's been two days since I last saw her, and concern gnaws at me.

I kick at the rocks, my mind consumed by thoughts of her. Imagining a potential delightful evening, our Fridays usually involve movies and music. My hair keeps falling into my eyes. I swipe it away, but it persistently returns.

October brings ominous grey clouds, foretelling a cold downpour. The impending rain carries a biting wind that stings my arms and face. Sometimes I sit outside in the downpour, letting the bitter cold take over.

Margaret is probably home, hiding in bed. Lucky for her, her ego is dead.

The neighborhood looms ahead, but there's little incentive to head home. Anticipating my father's inebriation and my mother's absence in a distant city leaves me hesitant. I could just sneak off to Margaret’s.

I kick a concrete chunk, and it rolls into the tall, unkempt grass behind the neighborhood's backyards. It now resides there, as retrieving it would mean venturing into the overgrown expanse, a task I'm unwilling to undertake. While I appreciate nature, the elevated risk of encountering ticks, especially during their prime in October, gives me pause.

Something is itching my leg.

In a few more minutes, I'll either be back home or, perhaps, at Margaret's. The uncertainty lingers as I approach the decision point. An opening appearing in my neighbor's wooden fence, a lingering reminder of a storm from last year.

The origin of the opening eludes me. With only one tree in his yard, and it remaining upright during the storm, the mystery deepens. Eerie…

Not so, but the opening is a necessity. I traverse through Mr. Roberts' yard to reach his gate, unlocking it before making my way to my front door. Rest assured; the gate automatically locks upon closure. I have everything figured out.

Inside my house, and man, an unpleasant odor lingers—a mix of dog and unwashed laundry. The responsibility of cleaning up after my father falls on me; a situation where I find myself tending to his mess. On some days, I retreat to my room, but it offers little sanctuary when he forcefully breaks down the door. Regrettably, three doors have succumbed to his anger, but on the bright side, the replacement is a new color!

As I make my way to my room, a brief pause in the kitchen reveals a mounting pile of letters and newspapers, resembling a small mountain. At the summit lie overdue bills. In the adjacent room, my father's snores echo from the couch— a perpetual state of slumber and inebriation upon my return. A peek into the fridge reveals scarce options, prompting occasional acts of food theft from the market or convenience store. Sometimes.

I hesitate to admit it, but my mind often wanders into fantasies of a different life, one where I'm with my mother. Passing by my inebriated father, a wave of profound sadness engulfs me once again. Like a desperate sadness, desperate to leave. Margaret.

Hurriedly, I dash down the short hallway, passing my father's bedroom and the bathroom. Once inside my room, I close the door, shedding the school uniform—first the skirt, then the button-up shirt. I change into something more comfortable and less regimented. Less…uniform. The finishing touch: I don my Maple Leafs baseball cap, a gift from my father years ago.

As I pass my father once more, an impulse to stop overtakes me. Despite the challenges, I still harbor love for him. His loud snores disturb not only me but also our two dogs, nestled in their worn brown bed with dark black eyes peering out. Observing my father, rugged and in need of a shave and haircut, I plant a kiss on his forehead and whisper my destination, even though he lies in unconsciousness. Leaving him to his slumber, I make sure to feed the dogs before I go.

Got to be responsible.

Margaret resides just down the street. While she didn't always live there, circumstances prompted a move during the ninth grade from their grand staircase-equipped old place to their current home, resembling mine. Change, at times, becomes inevitable.

I find myself bopping my head to a tune playing in my mind, possibly something by Justin Timberlake, though the specific track eludes me. The beat, familiar from being one of Margaret's favorites, keeps me company. Despite the cold wind, the rhythmic movement helps ward off the chill. Brown leaves dance in the wind around me as the spit of rain signals an impending storm.

Ascending the concrete walkway to my dear beloved friend's dwelling, a home akin to mine but exuding a homier and cozier ambiance. The screen door, showing signs of wear at the bottom, likely a result of encounters with animals or irate individuals, swings open as I approach. It's Margaret, her hair pulled back into a bun, and a wide, welcoming smile lighting up her face. Her expressive eyes, a striking shade of brown, captivate those who meet her. Well-defined eyebrows frame her face, and her petite nose is proportional to her other features. A lovely, symmetrical smile adds to her overall appealing and elegant appearance. She's without makeup, a usual state for her, donned in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a tank top. As I gaze into her eyes, I notice a red and lazy look. The same quality extends to her smile, and it becomes apparent that she's under the influence of something, likely pot.

As I approach her, she greets me with a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. The scent of weed clings to her, making my mouth water. Despite the temptation, I resist asking for some as I have an important report to complete. Graduating is crucial, especially considering my less-than-stellar performance during junior year. I was high most of the time.

"Come inside," she says, and I follow her instruction. She stumbles a bit, chuckling to herself. Friday nights, I can't help but love them.

I'm met with an unusual painting, a portrayal of Margaret herself. Strikingly unconventional, it reflects a Picasso-esque style—distorted and confused. I can't help but wonder if this is how she perceives herself.

Her small bed dominates the room, left unmade and in disarray. Besides the bed, there's a desk hosting her desktop computer and a painting corner that partially blocks the closet. I settle onto her bed, and Margaret joins me, asking if I like the painting. I find myself at a loss for words. While intriguing, it's undeniably confusing to look at. Like a trainwreck, I can’t look away!

And I’ve seen one before.

"It's not done yet; I hope to have it finished by tomorrow morning," she mentions with precision. I lie back on her pillow, closing my eyes for a moment. In my brief respite, I daydream about painting a house in the city—a fleeting imagination. There's only one path to that house in the city—getting this damn report done.

I rise from my reclined position to find Margaret fixated on the face she aims to complete in the painting. Exiting the bed, I retrieve my report—a compilation of words attempting to exude intellect, though my realization dawns that I'm no intellectual. Commencing the task, my pen moves hastily, creating a fast and sloppy script. My hand quickly tires. Adulthood may be deemed challenging, but, for me, school proves to be a personal hell, with reports serving as a particular torment. I sense Margaret leaving the bed as I witness her beginning to paint, humming a tune reminiscent of Frank Sinatra.

My brain aches; a familiar sensation that always accompanies homework sessions exceeding half an hour. Perhaps it's the stress of perpetual grades and the overwhelming pressure, but the aversion to schoolwork remains intolerable.

Margaret remains immersed in her painting, her concentration solely devoted to the canvas. The desire to inquire about her well-being lingers, but instead, I opt to suggest playing some music. "Want some music on?" she questions, seemingly oblivious to my prior request. Confirming with a yes, she heads over to her music player and speaker—a 2012-era iPod Touch. I reminisce about those iPods, recalling how mine had suffered a crack when I dropped it in a grocery store parking lot. It still exists, hidden somewhere in my room. Cleaning is not my forte, and neither is it Margaret’s: evident in the bed's emerging odor. The thought of informing Margaret crosses my mind, but I'm torn between expressing it and withholding the truth. Sometimes, she appears oblivious to common-sense matters, like punctuality for school, or attending at all. I've witnessed my dear Margaret arriving at school clad only in swimwear during the summer heat. Unfazed by the opinions of others, she dances to music in her ears. In that moment, a realization dawns—I think I love her.

The painting nears completion as nightfall descends, coinciding with the return of Margaret's parents bearing dinner plans and wine. The idea of partaking in some wine or weed crosses my mind. While I acknowledge Margaret's half-crazed focus on her painting, I yearn to spend some time with her before heading home. Standing beside her, I gaze at the perplexing painting of my friend. The eyes are off-center, the smile crooked—bearing little resemblance to her, yet Margaret exudes pride in her creation. She smiles at it with satisfaction.

"What do you think so far?" Margaret queries, her eyes fixed on the painting. An audible swallow follows. I respond with a simple "It's nice," but my words seem to pass without much acknowledgment. She continues smiling.

"Hey, Margaret? Can we just relax together for a bit? I'd like to watch a movie," I finally manage to ask after a few moments of contemplation. I glance at my dollar store watch, and it displays eight in the evening. The aroma of something cooking wafts through the air, suggestive of chicken roasting in the oven. I feel at home. So much more than I do at home.

"Margaret?" I ask once more, and this time she side-glances at me. "I heard you," she replies.

"Let's watch a movie before you get called to dinner, Margaret!" I plead, seizing her arms to redirect her attention. There's a moment of hesitation before she finally succumbs to my plea.

We recline in bed next to each other, a romantic comedy playing on Margaret's computer screen. I chose it not because it's genuinely funny but because it never fails to make her laugh, and that brings me joy. How wonderful life can be when you spend it with someone you care for.

"I love this scene!" she exclaims, and the sentiment resonates with me. Things couldn’t be any clearer for me.

"I know, I know. So do I."

"When will life be this good again?" she ponders.

"When you have a big staircase again," I jest, offering a smile. However, she doesn't reciprocate.

"I meant... like right now."

I seize her hand, giving it a shake, and declare, "Right now. That's when life will be this good. Right now, tomorrow night, Sunday night..."

"We have a whole future of napping together to look forward to," she murmurs softly, her gaze fixed on me. I sense there's something on her mind, but before I can inquire, her parents call her for supper, diverting our attention.

As we rise from the bed, the comforter comes along, creating a playful scene. How fun. I stretch, and my back and elbows pop. Margaret, not a fan of the popping sounds, hugs me to deter further pops. As we lock eyes, a burning sensation envelops my chest. Swiftly, I let go, preempting any foolish actions. The call for dinner echoes again, and she heads out, anticipating my follow. However, I linger in her room, fixated on the nearly completed painting. While I struggle to find the beauty in it, Margaret's adoration for it is undeniable.

That’s all that matters.

I bid farewell to Margaret's parents and their hamster, Courage, before strolling down the street. The chill persists, although the wind has subsided. The earlier rain has left a cold and unwelcoming atmosphere in its wake.

Thoughts of her painting linger in my mind, and I ponder the depth of her admiration for it. Occasionally, I yearn for such admiration, but a painting of her seems to claim it for itself.

I step into my home, and to my surprise, my father is awake in the kitchen. He appears somewhat sober and greets me with a kind smile. On certain days, he's an angel; on most days, he's not.

"How is Margaret, dear?" he inquires, always aware of my whereabouts.

"Obsessed with a painting, but besides that..." I pause by the fridge, retrieving leftover pasta. "She's eating dinner right now, like me."

I place the pasta in the microwave, setting the time to a minute and a half—the perfect duration.

I catch the sound of his sigh, a feeble attempt to conjure an excuse for not preparing dinner today. Purposefully, I avoid making eye contact. Some individuals, like my father, are resistant to change, and in such cases, ignoring them becomes a coping strategy for my own well-being.

Finally the microwave beeps its tune to let us know it’s done radiating my pasta sauce and I retrieve the hot Tupperware with a towel in my hand. I head to the utensil drawer, selecting a fork, an ancient relic from the eighties—clearly, the decade wants its utensils back.

"Hey hon, you're in your head right now. I can see it, you're off," he observes with genuine concern. Reluctantly, I meet his gaze, and it's evident that he's battling inner demons, likely yearning for the solace of alcohol. It's a sickness, and I'm no doctor. The dilemma is stark—calling an ambulance for a drunk isn't a practical option, considering our financial constraints.

"I'm fine, Dad. It's just..."

"No, I know. I've been drunk more often as of late," he admits. It's a consistent issue, not just a recent development. Despite this, I refrain from expressing the bitterness that such a statement might evoke.

"Hon, I am going to go to rehab."

Well, that wasn't something I was expecting.

"Are you sure, Dad?"

"More than sure. It's time I get help..."

"There's more, isn't there?"

"...Your mother phoned. She's back in Canada. And she's..."

"Dad?" He avoids eye contact, his eyes welling up.

"She's sick, hon." His eyes are teary, and he appears like a broken man. A whirlwind of emotions floods me, and I'm unsure of how to feel.

“What kind of sickness?” I ask, expecting cancer or lung disease.

“Cancer.”

My first instinct is to hug him, and I hug hard. I wasn’t expecting this today.

“She has cancer…” His weeping is demoralizing, but I do not feel any sadness just a feeling of protecting him from these nasty emotions. I barely knew Mom. But he knew her well before I came to be. I have to be here for him.

We spend the rest of the night watching sitcoms, his favorite form of entertainment. It brings him some calm, but the undercurrent of sadness remains undeniable. I retire to my room, change into pajamas, and settle into bed. My gaze falls upon a picture of Margaret and me, sitting close and smiling, and my thoughts linger on...

It's just a kiss away.